The weather is slightly different from the last time we were here, but the same ashen sky protects us from the hostile rays of the sun. Lifetimes have passed inside this tiny one in our hands, and there's still more to go—or so we'd think, since nobody truly knows what lies around the corner. The seed that was planted has grown into a lifeform mimicking an actual tree. Leaves have yet to develop; leaving us with the husk of an oak that you'd see in the depths of a snowy winter. Snow. Oh, to be so lucky. To live somewhere that echoes the eternal landscape within our hearts would be the only request from a djinn or wish upon a star. Whichever one works.

Oh dear, the sun is breaking through. The heat is seeping into our pores at a steady rate. Hopefully, this doesn't reflect the jejune ramblings we've voiced so far. We've always fared better in body and mind when surrounded by the lack of any light or warmth. Left alone in a corner with our phantasms and sporadic minds keeping us company throughout an immeasurable amount of suns and moons. This almost feels like what we'd write back then, just an endless stream of unpalatable emotions, tapdancing around the obvious in the hopes of receiving praise for our hollow intelligence. The hill of a cognitive make-up we had no hand in choosing for ourselves, one that earned us superficial praise and malignant ire in the name of "tough love." What a day it must've been, no? For us to be born so fractured.

The musings of a shadow are aiding us in this expression as we speak. A shadow is appropriate. Always there when the light of optimism shines upon us, almost serving as a reminder of what truly lies beneath. What will always lie beneath, forevermore? Most likely. As certain as the abyssian depths of an ocean, that truth will always remain. A fracture blanketed by the pleasant azure pleasantries that filled up this husk that holds our vessel together. A chalice feigning perfection.

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The hands that played a part in molding this vessel have begun to fall away. The doll was irreplaceable only when it played its part in drawing eyes and admiration for the artisans who crafted it. Nobody ever tells you what happens once the doll wishes to become an action figure. The ionosphere always serves its purpose, but now and then it also chaotically bursts into an aurora of vibrant colours and wonders. Alas, the brush has been taken away. The artists loathe their very own creations. The paintings have sprung to life and they wish to exist beyond the canvas they were born into.

We're quite the miserable being, all things considered. The sun harms us in such a visceral way that one would think we were vampires. The affection of others is like a silver bullet shot into a lycanthrope, spreading pain and misery throughout every fibre of our being. Skulking in the dark, we're finally at home. The empty streets of a humming city after twilight give us peace. Even with all those abnormalities, all those flaws, the solitude we've built for ourselves serves us unerringly.

There are far more humans about than last time. How strange. The pathways that only served to hold us have become wider without our noticing at all. The dollmakers haunt us, but we move on all the same. An everlasting conclusion that'll weave itself into a new story with differing arcs and branching storylines. What a joy that'll be.

We're alone, yet it's better this way. When we're in solitude, we're finally forgiven.

For being shattered,

And for merely existing.